Tbh all I can think about right now is Bruce and Clark taking the boys out for a picnic near the Kent farm so they have a chance to get some of their energy out but with Supervision™ this time (pun intended). And as Clark and Bruce catch up and chat amicably they watch their boys run around the fields endlessly, and play with the dogs, and Damian convinces the cow to let him ride her. When they start getting a mischevious look about them, their dad’s are thinking it’s a good time to intervene, because last time this happened Damian ended up in the tiger enclosure at the zoo, and Jon got locked in the vet tech room. But it’s all just good. Life is good. The sun is warm, the boys are happy. Just being kids. Clark and Bruce are in a place they’d never thought they’d be: two old fathers of young sons but it’s such a joy, such a privilege to watch them laugh and play.
But Bruce calls to Damian, it’s time to go. The boys pout, but come when their fathers call them. They drag their feet, moving as slowly as possible. Bruce sighs in exasperation, but there’s no real feeling behind it. His heart is too full, too warm just seeing his son with a real friend, a true friend he doesn’t have to pretend around. Kind of like Clark has been for him.
The boys finally make it to them…. And good Lord, do they stink to high heaven. Two smelly, sweaty kids with bright eyes and hair sticking up and matching grins, their fathers can’t find it in them to mind the smell.
a/n: i wrote this because i need a backrub. that’s it. that’s why i wrote it. and it took me three goddamn days.
if you don’t have inherent womanly wiles, store-bought is fine
[jonxsansa, modern au ~3k+]
The Stark estate is a madhouse on weekend mornings. They’re late to bed but early to rise, still riding on the high from the night before (with a little help from a few ibuprofen and several cups of coffee each). The kitchen is a mess of sugar cereals, sausage and bacon snapping on the stove, dogs begging for scraps, loud music, and Robb’s attempts at keeping time to the beat, using his cutlery and mug as a makeshift drumset.
Sansa is up first every morning to beat the rush. Not to mention, she makes the best pancakes, so she’s needed in the kitchen before her ravenous siblings if she wants to avoid a replay of the last time they were left alone with the oven. She’s not sure that Bran’s eyebrows would grow back a second time, and Arya would certainly be at risk of busting her gut from laughing that hard again. Dramatic, perhaps, but Sansa likes to get a jog in while the sun rises, anyway, and she prefers to come home to a smoke-free kitchen.
The midsummer heat is stifling, and Sansa is slick with sweat when she returns from her morning run. Her siblings have just trudged downstairs, groggy but nevertheless ready for the day. Bran passes her a cup of the Irish cream blend as soon as she steps through the sliding glass door.